


Long Live the King

by sparxwrites



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, King Gavin, Kings AU, Minecraft, Revenge, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 20:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1871919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fool sits upon the throne, as if he owns it and has done for centuries, legs crossed and head propped upon his fist where he leans his arm against the arm of the throne. His casual disregard for authority is written in the insolent lines of his sprawl, in the mess of his hair, in the way the gravity of his position hardly seems to weigh him down at all.</p>
<p>Not a fool any more, Ryan reminds himself, spite in the clench of his jaw and the way his fingers curl around the links of the chains. A king, the crown upon his head still stained with the blood of the previous king. With <i>his</i> blood.</p>
<p>(In which Gavin is the new King, Ryan is the only one who can see the madness in his eyes, and none of the others hold any love for Ryan after what he put them through.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Live the King

**Author's Note:**

> My writing style did a Weird Thing for this, so not quite sure what happened there. Anyway, this was a gift for a friend who mostly just wanted King Gavin losing it and Ryan being taught a bit of a lesson. Hope this works for you!

They drag him before the throne in chains, the hard iron around his wrists a sharp contrast to the soft gold that used to decorate his brow. Forced to his knees before the towering monument of red velvet and gold plating, Ryan snarls and bucks against the hands on his shoulders until the cold of a blade presses against the back of his neck.

He subsides, swallows and turns his eyes to the throne room. Michael won’t hesitate to behead him, orders or no, and he rather likes his head where it is.

The Old Kings are arrayed around the throne, like guardians, the lone Kingless One standing slightly to the side. Jack’s eyes are a little narrowed, his face creased with lines of dissatisfaction that Ryan swears weren’t there before – but then again, perhaps he’s reading too much into it. Perhaps it’s just the way the light flickers, runs in ripples off the enchanted pickaxe thrown over his shoulder.

Perhaps not.

Geoff and Ray flank the throne, polar opposites. On the left; leather boots and plate armour and an iron sword across his back, a will of steel hidden behind deceptively sleepy eyes. On the right; fabric that blends with the darkness of the stone, face half-hidden in shadow, an expression that is unreadable despite the lack of customary mask. Power and stealth, perfect complements to one another.

And upon the throne… the Fool sits upon the throne, as if he owns it and has done for centuries, legs crossed and head propped upon his fist where he leans his arm against the arm of the throne. His casual disregard for authority is written in the insolent lines of his sprawl, in the mess of his hair, in the way the gravity of his position hardly seems to weigh him down at all.

Not a fool any more, Ryan reminds himself, spite in the clench of his jaw and the way his fingers curl around the links of the chains. A king, the crown upon his head still stained with the blood of the previous king. With _his_ blood.

(The stitches in his side ache at the memory; blood on the floor in puddles, crown rolling it through it in lazy arcs. Sword dropped from fingers twitching to try and stop the bleeding, and the _smile_ on Gavin’s face as he’d picked the bloody crown from the flagstone floor and placed it on his head…)

To add insult to injury, the cloak that sits heavy over his shoulders is Ryan’s, red velvet trimmed with ermine fur. Ryan knows the feel and weight of it, the softness against his throat and cheek, intimately. Seeing Gavin upon the throne with it tossed behind him, seeing him grin with white teeth as his eyes glow in the low light, is close to blasphemy.

“Thanks, Mogar,” says Gavin, informal as ever despite his new, elevated status, smile wide and friendly and Ryan feels like he’s the only one that can see the madness shining in their new ruler’s eyes. Maybe he is. Takes one to know one, after all.

Michael grins, plants his sword between his feet with hands wrapped tight around the hilt, diamond gleaming in the low torchlight. “My pleasure,” he replies, and means it, every vicious syllable of it.

Beginning to feel a little surrounded – the wolf amongst the sheep after the sheep have seen through the wolf’s disguise and brought the might of the herd to bear on it – Ryan bows, reluctantly, dips his head to press against the floor. “My lord,” he says, quiet, voice rough. He’s not spoken much for the past week or so. Conversation is hard to come by in a solitary cell, the rest of the dungeon empty and echoing around him. His words had dried up after a while.

“Hi, Ryan.” The king’s attention turns on him, sharp as claws and twice as painful, and Ryan cringes under it. The fact Gavin used Michael’s nickname, didn’t use his, has not escaped his notice. “You know why you’re here.”

It’s not a question, but Ryan rasps out a, “Yes,” all the same, meets Gavin’s eyes with as little fear as he can manage. It’s hard, when he can see the roiling insanity beneath them, see the cruel laughter etched in the slight lines at the corners.

Gavin’s smile widens, two apex predators acknowledging each other from across a room. “The others have asked for revenge, for the crimes you have committed. They’ve asked for your head.”

“What crimes?” Ryan had meant to hold his tongue, to be quiet and argue his case with a clear and level head, but anger takes over. “What crimes have I committed, that any of you have not? What have I done during my rule that is so much _worse_ than the atrocities you designed for sport?”

It’s Geoff that speaks, before Gavin, before the King can list the rules of the land. “How can you ask that?” he says, quietly horrified.  
“After what you did to Kerry, to- to all of us,” snarls Michael, anger tight and thick in his voice. “You fucking _monster_ -”

“I didn’t force Gavin’s hand,” points out Ryan, quietly. “I didn’t force him to kill Kerry. He chose to.”

Gavin’s eyes harden, cold and angry. “I had no choice!” he says, and Ryan alone hears the lie in the words – Ryan alone saw the bright glee in Gavin’s eyes as he slew the thing Kerry had become, saw the joy of the kill in the bloody flash of his sword. “Not after what you’d done to him-” His words choke, strangle in his throat with fake grief, and Ryan can’t help but admire the performance.

“But I am a merciful King,” he says, the _unlike you_ hanging heavy and unspoken in the air. “I don’t want to kill you, James.”  
The use of his first name is jarring, but Ryan dips his head to press against the floor nonetheless. “Your majesty is truly gracious,” he replies, the smallest edge of sarcasm in his tone, bitten back as well as he can manage.

Sighing, Gavin leans back into the throne. “I can’t just let you go, though. You murdered Kerry-” and Ryan has to bite down on the denial, on the scream of _you killed him,_ because the others have been blinded to Gavin’s actions and speaking out will do no good, “-and you betrayed our friendship. I- we all- feel hurt by what you’ve done. Both they and I feel we deserve Retribution.”

He gestures with one hand, and Michael steps around to stand in front of him – sword now in his sheath, thank the Gods for small mercies. There’s no kindness in his eyes as he stares down at the man before him, no acknowledgement of the friendship they’d shared, and Ryan swallows. Bearing a Retribution, let alone five, is never pleasant, but he’d hoped for some gentleness.

Evidently, he will not be allowed that luxury.

“Ryan Haywood,” says Michael, and his voice shakes a little. There’s anger in his eyes, sharp and focused in a way Ryan’s never seen it focused before – he realises, then, that he’s never seen Michael angry with _him_ , specifically.

It’s suddenly a lot easier to understand Michael’s reputation as a warrior, to understand why he alone is called Protector of the Realm.

“You have harmed my friends, and myself. This is my retribution.” The kick to the stomach is not unexpected, and Ryan takes it in silence, doubles over and swallows down the grunt of pain as the breath is driven from his lungs.

He sucks in air for a long moment, and then looks up at Michael. “When you’re doing this in a week, a month’s time, when it’s Gavin on his knees before you for his crimes, remember this,” he says, smiles, because he _knows_. He knows the madness the crown brings, has seen it in Gavin’s eyes.

Michael kicks him again, and this time he doesn’t manage to stay silent.

He’s still gasping for breath as Michael backs away, moves to stand at the King’s right hand side as is his rightful place, and Ray comes forward to take his place. Unlike Michael, he stands there for a long moment, waits for Ryan to remember how to breathe.

“He’ll turn on you, you know,” he tells Ray, when he’s caught his breath and is no longer hitching on the inhale, a little more insistence in his voice. It’s insistence, he tells himself, not panic. He just needs them to _understand_ , to punish him if they want but to at least see the danger in Gavin’s easy sprawl over the throne, in the greed that flashes deep in his eyes.

Ray ignores him.

“Ryan, you have harmed my friends and myself,” he says, catching Ryan’s chin and forcing him to meet his gaze. His fingers press along the line of Ryan’s jaw, down his neck, the wickedly sharp thorns sewn into his gloves digging into the skin. “This is my retribution.”

When he pulls his hand away, the thorns catch and tear, making tiny holes that bleed droplets of rose-red blood down the length of Ryan’s neck and into his shirt. Ryan winces, grits his teeth, and says nothing; just waits in bloodied silence for the next small cruelty.

Next, Jack. There’s still the pickaxe in one hand, hefted over his shoulder, and Ryan eyes it warily. At least Michael had sheathed his sword, capable as he was of killing without it. The pickaxe may not be designed as a weapon, but it’s heavy, and wickedly sharp – more than capable of striking a killing blow.

But the pickaxe stays where it is, Jack making no motion towards moving it. Instead, he sighs heavily, eyes searching Ryan’s face for something.

Whatever it is, he doesn’t seem to find it, and some of the friendliness drains out of his face. “I’m disappointed in you, Ryan,” he says, and the words weigh on Ryan’s shoulders heavier than the blows. He feels a little sick.

Jack catches his chin in one hand, fingers pressing into the marks Ray had left there, ignoring the way Ryan flinches. “Ryan Haywood,” he says, voice slow and deliberate. “You have harmed my friends, and myself. This is my retribution.”

By any reasonable standards, it is a gentle retribution, hardly revenge at all. But Jack has a way with words, a way to weight his tone so they crawl under the skin and _stay_ there, and Ryan suddenly itches with the burden of his disappointment. He wants to try and warn Jack, but the words have died in his throat.

“Be careful of the new king,” he murmurs, instead – and although Jack’s head is already mostly turned away from him, he still sees the sudden narrowing of his eyes. He hopes the expression is thoughtful, hopes Jack, out of all of them, will heed his words. For all the games he played with them, he still cares about them, still fears what Gavin’s particular brand of insanity will do to them.

Geoff is next, and he is not so gentle.

There’s murder in his eyes as hits Ryan across the face with the pommel of his sword and Ryan hisses, feels his cheek bruise and split under the weight of it as he sways to one side. (Sways and remembers, too late, that Kerry was Geoff’s pupil, like a son to him, remembers too late how deep the bonds of family run with the Ramseys.) The blow almost knocks him to the floor and he gasps, rights himself – looks up at Geoff with hopeless eyes and splits blood on the floor from where he bit the inside of his cheek.

“He’s going to kill you,” he says, as calmly as he can manage. There’s the edge of a snarl in it, an edge of hysteria he can’t quite keep down now. They’re not listening to him, none of them are listening, why aren’t they _listening_. “He’s going to destroy you _all_ , why can’t you _see-_ ”

Then Geoff hits him again, and he shuts up, wheezing bloody saliva onto the floor and trying not to meet the cold eyes of the one he once called friend, mentor, King. “James Ryan Haywood,” says Geoff, and Ryan flinches at the use of his full name, at the lack of a title. “You have harmed my friends, and myself. This is my retribution.”

(He should be grateful, he thinks, that Geoff had not used the blade of his sword – that Michael did not use his sword, Jack his pick axe, Ray the hundred and one weapons hidden on his person. Should be grateful he did not lose an eye, or an ear, fingers or toes. Perhaps the others hold some fondness for him yet.)

Ryan’s still drooling blood to the stone below when he hears footsteps, when the dark green leather of Gavin’s boots stop in front of him, and he groans. He’d hoped it was over, hoped that maybe Gavin would be lenient. Would forgive him, considering it is by his actions that Gavin now wears the crown.

The feet move, pace closer, one leaving the ground to press against the still-tender stitches that line his side just below his ribs, and Ryan’s vision whites out for a long minute. He gasps, chokes on his own breath and tries to remember how to inhale, until the foot moves and the pain passes.

Gavin eyes him critically as he comes back to himself, calculating beneath the carelessness, and then offers him a hand. He pulls him close, when he’s on his feet, and puts a hand on his shoulder to whisper in his ear. “I can’t punish you, Rye-bread,” he says, and the old nickname makes Ryan _cringe_ with how wrong it sounds on Gavin’s lips. “Not when you gave me what I’ve been waiting for. But…” He sighs, shakes his head as his hands find the shackles around Ryan’s wrist and undoes them with a small twist of a key. “You might want to run, now.”

The shackles hit the floor with the sound of clashing swords.

Free, Ryan holds himself still and steady as Gavin takes a step back. “Thank you, my liege,” he says, through the blood pooling on his tongue and the swelling of his eye, the sharpness of every inhale. “For your kindness.”

He refuses to run, still some pride left in him – despite his fall from grace, the blood and the beatings and the empty space where his crown once sat. Instead, he walks, head held as high as he can manage and back straight despite the pain in his side, still every inch a king.

The others watch him leave. Michael starts, tries to go after him, and stops reluctantly when Gavin curls fingers around his forearm. “Let him go.”

(Only once the heavy oak doors have slammed shut behind him does he begin to run, breath harsh in his chest, body a single line of pain. The knowledge that it won’t be enough to escape whatever Gavin’s sending after him weighs heavy on his mind.)

Back on his throne, legs crossed and one finger absently tapping at the crown atop his head, Gavin smiles. “Alright, lads, gents,” he says, to the gathered men, and they draw close at his words. “The first challenge to be set by King Gavin….” He pauses, listens to them all inhale in anticipation, and his smile widens. Teeth gleam in the low torchlight, eyes in shadow, and he can feel the slow excitement, the slow fear rising in the room as he speaks.

“Kill Ryan Haywood. _Go_.”


End file.
